


Waiting

by tsuvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Drunken Confessions, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Missing Scenes, Pining, Series Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1257682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuvi/pseuds/tsuvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So what sort of truths are we asking? Fact checking, or-?" </p><p>John leans back, laughing. "No, more like personal things you might want to find out about someone. Say, who have you slept with-" </p><p>"Nope," says Sherlock, automatically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scenes from Season Three. 
> 
> Enormous thanks to venvephe for the beta read!

 

"Shall I put the kettle on, then? Or d'you think we should keep this party going?" says John, laughing at the idea that just the two of them in 221B Baker Street could ever be considered a _party_.

Sherlock burrows deeper into the well-worn leather of his chair. He knows it isn't a good idea for them to keep drinking in their current state. John’s holding up a bottle of whisky, though, and it seems to be telling a different story. He’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, the dim light turning his hair gold, not to mention he has the most terrific shit-eating grin Sherlock’s ever seen. John could probably make him do anything with that grin.

"It's your stag night, John. I wouldn't be the best man if I didn't insist we keep on drunking- _drinking_."

Perhaps he is drunker than John. It’s as if a slow burning fire has been set inside his stomach. The warmth of the alcohol seems to be spreading downwards; even his toes feel tingly inside his shoes. He sinks deeper into his chair at the thought. It’s strange to feel this relaxed. Sherlock isn't too accustomed to episodes of heavy drinking, but according to his - well, _Molly's_ \- calculations, they should be just in the sweet spot he had wanted. Not toe-tingly. Bloody Molly, only good for corpses, and cover-ups, and as a pretty good fill-in John. Sherlock rather likes Molly, but not really as a _John_. No, John is his only John, now that he thinks about it.

He is bloody drunk.

John comes back to the sitting room with two rather full-looking glasses of whisky, handing one to Sherlock and quickly making work on his own. He flops into his tartan chair, rubbing his socked feet together, and Sherlock thinks how perfect this picture is. He had suggested a game on the steps downstairs rather than going out to another pub for entirely selfish reasons. It's a quiet moment with John he wasn't sure he would ever get again. Well, not now with John and Mary moving to the quaint townhouse in the suburbs and their new life together. As much as they are all pretending, Sherlock isn’t really a part of their new life. Not completely.

"What sort of game were you thinking of playing, Sherlock? Because I have absolutely _no_ interest in your frankly fucked-up variety of Cluedo." John's swearing goes up a notch when he consumes alcohol. Sherlock can’t help but find it delightful.

"Operation? It should be around here somewhere..." Sherlock jumps up from his chair, swaying slightly from the sudden vertigo, and starts wildly looking around for the game he and Mycroft had been playing not three weeks ago.

"No, I was thinking something more appropriate for a stag do. Like maybe truth or dare, or something."

Sherlock stops looking under the mounds of paper on the table and turns to look at John.

"How do you play?" asks Sherlock.

John gives one of his indulgent smiles. "Do you mean to tell me you've never played truth or dare before? Well, actually, I guess that fits my mental image of your school experiences."

"Wha’ d’you mean?" Sherlock slurs, walking back to his armchair.

John takes a large gulp of his drink, as if trying to catch up to Sherlock’s level of drunkenness.

"Well, I imagine you didn’t have many friends. Usually you play truth or dare at parties, or when you sleep over a mate's house." John looks guilty as this, like he thinks his bluntness could offend him. Sherlock waves his hand to reassure John that it is just facts, and to continue.

"Anyway, you play by choosing either ‘truth’ or ‘dare,’ then depending on what you chose, you have to tell the truth or complete a dare."

Sherlock leans forward in his chair, "So what sort of truths are we asking? Fact checking, or-?"

John leans back, laughing. "No, more like personal things you might want to find out about someone. Say, who have you slept with-"

"Nope," says Sherlock, automatically.

John falls silent, his mouth making a funny ‘o’ shape. Sherlock thinks he might have overstepped some sort of unspoken boundary, but the warmth in his stomach makes him feel strangely comfortable talking about this.

John rubs a hand over his face as if wiping off his shocked expression, his mouth returning to a thin almost-frown.

"I always thought Mycroft was just teasing when he called you a-"

John hesitates before finishing and Sherlock inwardly cringes. He hates that word. It was bad enough when Irene called him ‘The Virgin’. It doesn’t really accurately describe his situation; he is in no way naïve or innocent, nor does he want John thinking of him as such. To John he has always been high cheekbones and turned-up-collar mystery. His hand has been revealed, though. Sherlock doesn’t think he can bear to see the word ‘freak’ reflected on John’s face when John looks at him.

“Well, virginity is actually an archaic - and quite frankly pointless - concept used to give value to a woman when she is getting married. It also is a very ambiguous term, as it doesn’t include types of sex other than penetration. Nor sex with oneself, which I can assure you I have had plenty of- ”

John has a sudden coughing fit, interrupting Sherlock’s rant. “Ah, well - that is enough information there I think. A bit too much, even.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Oh, please. Masturbation is perfectly natural, John. If I remember correctly, your favourite place was always in the shower-”

“God, Sherlock, did you just admit to listening to me wank in the shower?”

The warmth in Sherlock’s stomach suddenly races to his face. He really should avoid drinking this much ever again. It’s as if his brain is working slower than his mouth.

“Well… the bathroom leads right onto my room. It was… unavoidable.”

The silence that falls after Sherlock’s admission hangs heavily between them. John is staring at Sherlock’s face like he is trying hard to focus on him, his eyes desperately searching for something. Perhaps he is looking for the joke there, but the punch line isn’t coming. Sherlock is using every last bit of his drunken strength to keep his face from betraying anything. John’s getting married, there is no point complicating things further with an unfortunate slip.

“We really need to change the subject,” says Sherlock.

The moment is broken; John’s shoulders almost instantly take on a more relaxed shape.

“Damn right we do. Maybe I’ll get another drink then.”

He looks at Sherlock questioningly, his face uncertain. Sherlock’s not sure what he’s asking with that look, but he nods and holds out his empty glass as an answer. The exchange is heavy with meaning, but Sherlock is too drunk to deduce exactly what.

John takes Sherlock’s glass - his fingers brush across Sherlock’s to get a firm grip of it - then walks wordlessly into the kitchen to retrieve the whisky.

“How about a game of Rizla?” calls out John from the kitchen, audibly sloshing generous shots into their glasses.

Sherlock is amenable.

* 

He later thinks about the drunken conversation he and John had during their very brief game of truth or dare. Sherlock thinks about John's hand on his knee and the way he’d said 'I don't mind'. He wonders if John’s _not minding_ harks back to his admission about listening to him in the shower, or the fact that Sherlock’s attraction was written all over his face.

Deep down, Sherlock hopes that John doesn’t mind that he hasn’t slept with anyone before. He would never want something like that to make John treat him different. Thinking about the physical contact between them that night—arms around each other as they sat side by side on the couch listening to the client, the way John held Sherlock up as they were getting into the police car, his hand hot and clinging to the shirt on his chest—it seemed that John didn’t mind at all. Maybe John realises that he is the object of Sherlock’s misdirected affection. After all these years of not feeling, Sherlock is now starting to feel particularly amorous about one ex-flatmate. Perhaps it’s all fine with John, like it always seems to be.

Sherlock feels some of the loneliness slip from his chest. He feels lighter.

*

They are having dinner and discussing wedding plans at John and Mary's new place. Sherlock never really likes coming here. He tells himself that's because it is so far out of the city proper, away from the city’s inner heart. He's never liked the suburbs, never enough crime.

He doesn’t think about John’s room upstairs at Baker Street, collecting dust. He doesn’t think about the solider-squared sheets, no longer slept in. He doesn’t think about the way he sometimes goes up there to see if John’s pillow still smells like him. It does. Just.

"I think it's all coming together," says Mary, crossing off another wedding list to-do with her giant red marker, "I’m putting the kettle on, you lot want tea?"

They do, and Mary leaves for the kitchen. Sherlock and John are left sitting in the living room. Sherlock’s only ever seen the living room and the kitchen. He doesn’t know what John and Mary’s bedroom looks like here. He expects it’s more Mary. John usually merges happily into the environment of others, much like he did all those years ago when he moved to Baker Street.

John looks ready to fall asleep on the couch; his head is sitting heavily propped up in his hand. He is starting to blink slowly, a sure sign that he is dead-on-his-feet tired. John’s had more shifts at the surgery recently, not a lot of spare time between his work and the wedding planning. Not to mention he didn’t seem to enjoy discussing seating plans or caterers like Sherlock or Mary did.

"I'm really glad we are at the tail end of planning all this,” says John, "To be honest, I'll be happy when it's the honeymoon. I'll need the holiday after planning everything."

Sherlock picks at a loose thread on the armrest, frowning.

"I don't understand why you both insist on that pointless ‘honeymoon’ tradition. You have to get time off work, and spend all that money, for what?" says Sherlock.

"To have a week to myself with my new wife, which will hopefully result in a lot of great sex!"

Sherlock tries desperately to dispel the heat he feels threatening to raise in his face; he hates being made to feel naive. Despite what Mycroft might say, Sherlock does understand sex, even if he doesn’t take part in it. It just doesn't make any sense why John and Mary have to leave London to have lots of sex. He says the last part out loud.

"No, I don't expect you'd understand," says John, laughing.

It feels like a punch in the solar plexus. Sherlock never expected John to laugh at him for this. It must have shown on his face, despite himself. John’s seems to notice and his face crumples, his thin mouth forming a grimace.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

Mary comes back into the sitting room with the tea, unknowingly breaking the tension that had just bloomed between John and Sherlock.

"Now, should we go over those seating plans one last time, Sherlock?" she says.

Sherlock nods in agreement, not trusting his voice.

John shoots him furtive glances for the rest of the night, but Sherlock pointedly does not return them. When it comes time for him to leave, John walks him to the door.

"Sherlock, I really didn't mean anything earlier when I said-"

"I know," Sherlock replies, putting up every wall he knows as he reaches for the doorknob.

"Oh. Good. You should know I'd never laugh at-"

"It's fine, John. Really," says Sherlock, starting to walk down the front stairs.

"Ok, well see you soon, then. Let me know when you get your next case."

As Sherlock walks down their street, he feels his recent loneliness seeping back in. It’s like John’s words have left a giant cavity in his chest. He thought he knew everything about John, yet he thinks about how John looks at Mary, with eyes he'd never seen; the way the lines around his best friend’s eyes soften when Mary says something funny, or how he breaks into a carefree grin whenever he talks about her. Sherlock had always secretly thought he was the source of John’s happiness, that with a simple run around London, Sherlock could cure John of any sadness or worry. Seeing John look at Mary, he realises that he was wrong. John has fallen in love with Mary, and they share something Sherlock has never shared with anyone. He wonders, at that moment, if he'd perhaps made a mistake by ignoring such things all this time.

 _Sentiment_ , he almost laughs at how pathetic he sounds.

Scoffing at the ridiculousness of his situation doesn’t make him feel any better, though. He truly does believe the advice he gave Mycroft. He doesn’t want to live alone, not that he has a choice anymore.

*

_Is it a risk night?_

Sherlock can hear Mycroft’s condescending concern even though he hadn’t seen Sherlock leave the wedding early.

The night has brought a sharp chill in the air. Sherlock swings his coat on over the uncomfortable wedding suit he was forced to wear and starts walking to the closest main street. He has a room booked at a nearby bed and breakfast, like the other members of the wedding party. He doesn’t think he can bear spending the night in an unfamiliar floral room alone. Not while John and Mary are celebrating their news and new life together in a nearby room.

No, Baker Street is calling. John will probably call later, wondering where he’s gone. Sherlock will have to think of a convincing excuse. Something about a client, perhaps. Above all, he doesn’t want to upset John, not tonight.

Sherlock finally manages to flag down a taxi. Inside he leans his head against the cool glass, watching his breath fog up the window. He has to focus on something to stop his head from spinning. He can’t stop seeing John and Mary’s face when he made his last deduction about the baby. He can’t stop hearing John say the three of them can’t dance. It’s as if the events of the past few hours are on a loop in his head and he can’t seem to turn it off. The pace at which his brain is racing is insufferable; he can’t cope with the buzzing sound of his panic.

He nearly throws the money at the cab driver upon arriving at Baker Street, racing inside. He twists out of his coat and tosses it over John’s armchair. Only then does he notice how utterly silent it is. It has been a whirlwind of cases and bombs and wedding planning since he returned. Somehow it all feels final, now. John’s left Baker Street for good, and will have less time than ever to visit when the baby is born. John doesn’t live here anymore. Sherlock is alone once again.

He needs to clear his mind.

Rolling up his shirtsleeves, Sherlock starts widely looking around for his violin. His eyes come to rest on his empty music stand. He’d left his violin at the reception.

Fuck.

He runs his shaking hands through his hair. Nicotine isn’t going to scratch this itch, won’t event take the edge off the buzzing. It has been years since he’s felt this bad, this _desperate_.

Sherlock always kept a box of it, just in case. Neither John nor Lestrade had managed to find the nondescript brown box he kept hidden in plain sight. His breathing starts to increase as he strides into his bedroom and locates the box on his bedside table. He sits with the heavy weight of it on his lap, opening the creaking lid.

Inside is a pile of photographs. They’re innocuous to anyone who bothered to look. A yellowing photo of Sherlock and Mycroft sits on top. They are on holiday, standing side by side barefoot on the pebbles of the English seaside. They both look happy.

Sherlock tosses the photos aside to reveal the bottom of the box. He uses his fingertips to slowly pry out the fake bottom. His breathing finally slows when he sees that it is all there where he left it. The still-wrapped needles, the rubber strip, the _cocaine_. He could cry with the relief.

A few moments later, Sherlock is reclined on his bed, his left bicep in a tourniquet. As it enters his veins, Sherlock can feel the calm wash over him. It is as if he is being slowly lowered into a warm bath. He can almost hear the seaside.

There’s nothing for a while. John never does end up calling.

*

The buzzing doesn’t seem to ever really stop after that, so Sherlock keeps the hits coming, just to keep the panic at bay.

  
*

"Will you be home for dinner tonight? Maybe we could get a takeaway, or even go out to a restaurant for a change?"

Janine is hopeful on the last request, her large brown eyes fixed on him, searching. Sherlock hasn’t taken her out for a proper date during the course of their relationship. Admittedly, it has only been three weeks. Surely takeaways in front of the television are enough?

"No, I don't think I will be home in time for dinner. Feel free to eat without me," Sherlock says, breaking away from her gaze. He grabs his scarf from the coat rack.

"Oh, Sherl, you really are turning out to be a terrible boyfriend," says Janine, walking over to grab Sherlock's scarf and pull him closer, giving him a cheeky grin that had most likely worked on all her previous lovers. "It almost seems like you don't want to spend any time with me at all."

Sherlock laughs, flashing a mischievous grin of his own. "That is most certainly _not_ true. The case I'm working on really needs all my attention right now. I promise I'll rush home as soon as I can."

"Good," Janine lets go of his scarf and flops backwards over the armrest of John's armchair, seductively crossing her exposed legs. "I'll wait up."

Sherlock smiles and averts his gaze. He can’t bear to see Janine in John’s chair. It all seems wrong.

"I'll see you later, then," says Sherlock, turning to leave.

"Forgetting something?"

Sherlock turns around, confused, and upon seeing Janine's coy smile, leans over the armchair to place a chaste kiss on her forehead. As he straightens, she pulls on his scarf and places her lips on his. 

*

That armchair needs to go, Sherlock thinks to himself as he hails a cab outside Baker Street. Seeing Janine in that chair only makes him think of John, and he doesn’t want to think about him right now.

Sherlock gives the cabbie the address and sits back against the worn leather, looking out the grime-streaked window as London starts to speed by. He hopes there isn’t much traffic; he feels his hands shaking already. Dealing with Janine while still coming to terms with John’s absence is getting increasingly difficult while sober. Cocaine is the only thing that will take the edge off any more.

He doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up with Janine. There are only so many excuses to give before a person becomes suspicious.

Sherlock likes Janine. She is funny, and surprisingly easy to talk to. He has no doubt they could be friends. However, Sherlock doesn’t expect Janine will want anything to do with him after his true intentions are revealed.

He has to block out any regret he feels if he wants to get to Magnussen. And right now, Sherlock needed a fix.

* 

If he’s being completely truthful, he had felt a strange sense of satisfaction in seeing John's face fall after he kissed Janine goodbye. The shock of Sherlock’s unexpected display of emotions—his sudden _normalcy_ —seemed to have rendered John speechless. He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around someone knowing Sherlock in that way, and it almost looked a little like jealousy.

He doesn’t spend too much time thinking about it. Thinking about John, while kissing Janine instead, makes him want to get the brown box in his room - and he doesn’t have time for that now. He needs to work out how to get Janine to let him into Magnussen’s office.

*

Sherlock realises he has reached a breaking point when he is shot and his pain management is IV-administered morphine. On one hand, the cotton-wool fog that morphine gives him is a welcomed break from his reality. However, morphine has never been conducive to quick thinking, and Sherlock doesn’t have much time if he wants to work out why Mary shot him. If he has ever needed the increased alertness and clarity cocaine offers him, it’s now.

When Sherlock’s breaks out of his hospital room, the climb out the window is beyond painful. As he manoeuvrers between the hospital balconies, it feels as though glass has filled his chest, slowly piercing its way through his lungs with every movement. He keeps checking the bandage, to make sure he isn’t actually bleeding out. Just shy of his heart, not a kill shot, but damn close. _He needs proof_.

Sherlock catches a cab to Baker Street, ignoring the worried glances the cab driver keeps shooting him in the rear-view mirror. Sherlock must look a sight with his bloodless face and still wearing his hospital gown. At 221 he sets clues for John to come find him (his chair, _Claire de la Lune_ – let it be enough). He also needs to clear his mind, which is why he takes cocaine. It’s a risk not overdosing when he is high on opiates, so he only takes half his usual dose. It’s not euphoric, but it does the trick.

It isn’t until he is bleeding out in John’s arms for a second time that he thinks about the side effects of cocaine, like tachycardia and hypertension, and how stupid he has been. They know about Mary now, at least. It was worth it all in the end. As he clings to John’s shirt and his vision starts to swim, he can’t help but be glad to be in John’s arms.

* 

Sherlock and John are sitting in 221B Baker Street, John in his recently returned chair. His clenched fists are resting on his knees, his brow furrowed, lost in thought.

This has been a familiar picture over the last few weeks. John and Mary have barely spoken since the night at Leinster Gardens. John has even stayed in his old room for the odd night. Sherlock doesn't know if they can mend what has been broken between them, but he knows how desperately John wants to. Sherlock pushes the idea of John moving back into 221B into the darkest part of his mind. Only madness lies there.

"Whatever did end up happening with Janine?" says John suddenly, breaking Sherlock from his train of thought.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she thought you were getting engaged, and then she was knocked out cold. Have you cleared it all up with her? Or does the poor girl still think you're engaged?"

Sherlock gets up out of his chair to look for the evidence.

"I don't expect you saw the papers, then. She came to visit me in the hospital."

"Oh? How'd that go?"

"Well, she showed me the stories she had been selling to the papers." Sherlock finally finds the paper he was looking for on the side table and hands it over to John.

"’ _7 Times a Night in Baker Street_ ’? Wow, she really went for broke, didn't she? How did I miss all this?"

Sherlock sits back down, watching John’s face fall.

Mary.

It isn't a surprise John didn't have time to be perusing the papers.

"So deep down, did you like Janine at all? I mean, I know you said 'human error' and everything, but surely you had some sort of feelings. "

"I didn't have sex with her, if that’s what you are not-so-subtly getting at," says Sherlock.

"Well, that clears that up. I was surprised to see her coming out of your room that morning, but I’m asking if—"

"You were surprised that I could be sleeping with someone?"

“No, nothing like that. Just surprised that it all happened so quickly. You hadn’t mentioned her or anything,” says John. If Sherlock didn’t know better, his furrowed brow and pursed lips made him look put out.

“Well, I hadn’t seen you in a month,” Sherlock says with spite.

John looks down at his clenched fists, keeping his eyes on his hands instead of meeting Sherlock's gaze. John had felt guilty about that then.

“I am sorry about that. It was all just a bit of a whirlwind after the honeymoon and then getting back into work and there were all these new patients… it’s not an excuse; I do feel terrible about it. Especially after telling you nothing would change.”

Seeing John’s face fall makes Sherlock feel suddenly guilty. He shouldn’t be blaming John for spending time with his new family. It isn’t John’s fault Sherlock has suddenly noticed that his life is falling apart around him.

“It’s fine, John.”

John suddenly looks up at Sherlock, eyes narrowed with unexpected fury.

“Well it clearly wasn’t. You were using again. I can’t believe after all that time and all those drugs busts that you’d go and throw all that away. You could’ve come to me, I would’ve been able to help. Why do you never come to me for help?”

It isn’t just about the drugs; it’s about leaving John for two years, Sherlock realizes.

The air in the room suddenly feels heavier.

Sherlock has no idea what to say to John and the buzzing in his head isn’t helping. John suddenly stands from his chair and walks over, barefoot, to stop directly in front of Sherlock’s chair, looking straight at him. Their knees are almost touching.

John gestures for Sherlock’s left arm, not dropping his gaze. Sherlock stretches it out to him, then turns to look at the door. He can’t meet John’s eyes, not now. He feels his shirt being gently rolled up to above his elbow. John’s thumb ghosts over his forearm and the inner crease of his elbow, following the tracks borne of his absence. The touch feels almost like relief. It’s terrifying.

“Sherlock, you can’t keep doing this,” John whispers, still holding his arm.

“I’m not an addict.”

“Well, then that’s why you’re going to stop.”

Sherlock looks up at John, his expression guarded, but needing confirmation all at one. John is a paradox, with his laugh lines and tired eyes. He has weathered war and loss, yet he doesn’t lose faith in people. He has never stopped believing in Sherlock. Despite the hell Sherlock has put him through, John still thinks he is a good person. Perhaps that’s why Sherlock has to be. He can’t disappoint John. He knows now he would do anything to make sure this man sitting across from is happy. Even if it causes him pain, it is worth it to see that look of hope on John’s face. Sherlock loves him more than he thought possible.

“Ok.” 

*

When Sherlock arrives back at 221B after finding out he isn’t exiled to Eastern Europe, and maybe there is such a thing as second ( _and_ _third_ , _and_ _fourth_ ) chances, he heads to his bedroom. He picks up the familiar brown box, opening it to remove the photos, and gently placing them on the side table.

He sits on his bed, looking at the contents of the box. John will never stop needing him, and Sherlock has made a vow he is planning on keeping. Moriarty may very well be back in the picture and the Watson family needs protecting now more than ever.

Sherlock closes the box one last time.

 

 


End file.
